Undisturbed Calamity
by LonerReader
Summary: You'd be surprised how much a cigarette could relate to the insanity one holds.


_**Note: **It seems that over the course of this week, I've been fascinated deeper_

_into The Dark Knight than I'd anticipated._

_Therefore, I'm going to start writing with the spark of aspiration of many Dark Knight plots in mind._

_As an off note, here you go. It's much different from my past writing . . ._

_But that shouldn't really differ, now should it?_

**_Disclaimer: _**_It deeply saddens me that I do not own Joker or Batman, __but they belong to DC comics. _

* * *

><p>It'd been nothing but shallow weather the following week, cooling over Gotham in its wake as snow glittered the sky, painting every dead tree, and wetting the pavement until all that could be seen was a blanket of snow that could overcast any darkness. You could imagine everyone's spirits drowning at the sudden change in weather as fall faded into winter, but no―there was a small, light-heartened feel in everyone's chest as the sun broke out for a moment that day, and as the small bumps in the snow glittered with a wet shine, the sun reflected a white glow off the patches of snow and it remained calm, a quiet place for that moment in Gotham.<p>

Or, at least to the greatest extent of the people in Gotham. One of the rarities that had not felt the same was a man sleeping on a torn-up cot in the corner of a bedroom, smack-dabbed in only a hexagonal patterned dress shirt, dark, purple trousers, and differently colored checkered socks (in which did not warm his feet up in the slightest). To the side of the cot, there lay his pair of old brown shoes. However, the rest of his attire stood by close to the cot, strewn over the floor; a purple tie with sickly green diamonds etching the long strip of cloth, a green vest less sickly of the color the green diamonds adorned, and a purple trench coat, caked with dust and dirt. But the man on the cot paid no mind to his clothes that lay motionless on the gross, dirty floor, but was trying to overcome the insomnia that darkly chuckled at him every time his eyelids would blink in drowsiness.

He'd gone over it millions and billions of times in his head, but how could he not sleep? And when he did, how could it not last long enough? And there Joker laid, contemplating over the situation moreover millions and billions of times again, a battle for sleep going on in his head that his body could not accept.

No blanket was there to displace the imaginary prickles of needles on his skin from the cold, and he would have much obliged with the idea to use his coat for protection against the chilly night, but fought against it because it wouldn't differ in his mind either way: he'd either get a cold from sleeping in the roofless, broke down hotel complex, or get diseased from the outer layer of his coat. There really was no true difference that lie in his hands on the matter.

_Sleep, sleep, sleep_, he continued to lull himself, but the wish never became granted as ten minutes passed of nothing but _sleep, sleep, sleep_ . . .

_Heh, it's a funny joke if I'd say so myself_, he tried, humoring himself with his own dry humor. For some oddity, sleep took over as the dark chuckling went into his mind―_what a very _funny_ joke, indeed_.

To have a nightmare at Joker's age was a rarity on every view of scientific findings, but it was also a bigger rarity to actually dream at all for him it seemed. Tonight was not a common, blank sleep though; a dark, endless hole filled his dreams, clouding over with millions of voices repeating things he couldn't catch. Too many voices, too many things being said. What were they _saying_? Then it occurred to him, somewhere in that hole of darkness that he _was_ hearing them.

_Y'know, you sleep so much and not one dream has ever occurred to you. Most people who go insane would probably have a much obliged trouble sleeping, wouldn't you agree?_

Joker felt startled by this sudden phrase he'd caught, but now he'd ponder over those words carefully. He found himself asking―himself―_this is _wrong . . . _but quite interesting.__  
><em>

_It is isn't it? But back to the topic_―if it were possible for anyone to gradually be stunned in silence in your own _dreams_ by another voice, you could imagine just how Joker was feeling, and to say the least it had been very uncomfortable―_Joker, you're so impeccably ignorant on this foresight. How can you not mutter about your past while you sleep? How can you not ponder over the feeling that this is what is meant to be happening? Are you really this deep into insanity that you don't _care_?__  
><em>

And he felt his surroundings outside of his dreams―the cold needles of the wind to the uncomfortable springs in the small cot. What exactly was he doing to himself? By his knowledge, he knew of no one in Gotham (pardon the homeless) that slept in burnt-down apartment complexes. And he was almost one hundred percent _sure_ that the world's most wanted criminals don't sleep in burnt-down apartment complexes either.

_You could be out there, living a big life in this big world. You could be doing anything you wanted in this entire moment, but no. You choose to lay your lazy ass down in the freezing winter with snow coming in through the roof and all you can do is_ sleep._ What is wrong with you?_

In this fatal moment, Joker found himself snapping his eyes open, a rumble of laughter echoing, bouncing off the walls of the charred building. The only _voice _in his head was telling _Joker_ what to do? How _pathetic_! How completely and utterly pathetic is that?!

He was insane! Oh yes, he very well knows this. It looms in the back of his brain, brushing against it every day, every hour, every minute, every _second._ And what did he have all of it to thank himself for? (Well, besides Batman, he could thank his insanity, his mind, his sadistic thoughts―he'd bolt off the roof from his insanity if he could.) If the part of his brain only got _one_ thing right, it would be that he could be off his lazy ass and trying to track down his footmen, out there trying to detect Batman, even if he wouldn't rip that mask off in the end. Hell, he'd do it just to have the fight!_  
><em>

Though―as he rested his exhausted head back on to the flat surface of the damaged cot―, his thoughts lingered on a part that had not truly been spoken: "_How can you not mutter about your past while you sleep? How can you not ponder over the feeling that this is what is meant to be happening? Are you really this deep into insanity that you don't _care_?_" Did he? Did he care about his past? More importantly, would he be able to remember anything about the past, now running on the years like a star shooting through the sky, if he wanted to? Could he remember a trickle of normalcy he maybe―maybe once―just had in the world? In his own mind?

The snow fell soundlessly from above, sticking to Joker's blatant shirt before melting against his slight heat.

His eyes suddenly fluttered shut, and he found his dreams blank, and if he could have remembered the last thing he thought the next morning, it would have possibly put a little sympathy in his own heart for the sake of himself.

But how can you whimper in your sleep from the past when it's already been cut into your face?

The best thing about insanity is that it's like a cigarette; it lulls you into the darkness of death the moment you inhale it into your lungs, the nicotine staining the walls with the death you rolled off your lips. Most sane people don't believe it, but when you're smoking a cigarette, the thought of death does not cause fear in the heart, but more of the interest to _how_ it would kill you. The sane do not worry too much that they can die from a cigarette, and if they're not wondering _how_ it could kill them, they're the latter in the situation; they're sucking in the death and only for the pleasure, the new high of soaring into death―they don't worry about the death of it all. With insanity, it is very much similar to the latter.

You see, insanity runs to death with outstretched arms.


End file.
